Own Reflection
by p0tterhead
Summary: One-shot on how George and Angelina got started after Fred's death. She got through to him when no one else could...


By now, everyone had gone up to bed with blank expressions, faces glazed with tears. It was only Mrs. Weasley and Angelina now, sitting at the kitchen table, clutching cups of tea. Angelina wasn't very good at this sort of thing. She supposed she was actually like Fred and George herself; she wasn't very good at the serious stuff. Or at least, she was a bit the way Fred and George had been. George wasn't the same, anymore…

Angelina did not have the faintest idea why Mrs. Weasley had asked her to stay. The funeral had happened three days ago, and it had probably been the worst day of Angelina's life. She had never seen so much grief- or felt it. Worst of all was George. He looked half-dead himself as he tried to get up and deliver the eulogy. He had managed to choke out Fred's name before dissolving into the most terrible sobs Angelina had ever heard. They were sobs beyond agony, beyond tragedy. And since then, George had remained shut in their- his- room. Explosions sounded occasionally from it, but seeing as it was infinitely unlikely that he was inventing things for the shop, his worried relatives had tried to get in. The door was locked, and Alohomora would not open it. No one knew if George's yelps of pain were from self-inflicted spells or pure mental anguish. Angelina supposed sadly that it was both.

Molly was clearly suffering greatly, but she had no choice but to keep herself together for her family. She had not spoken to Angelina much. Their only contact was a few brave smiles exchanged between the two. Angelina had spoken to Ginny a bit, but the younger girl spent most of her time with Harry and her family. And so, Angelina had spent her days at the Burrow outside, sitting in the fields, pondering the war with deep misery and trying to be grateful that it was simply over.

With all the losses they had suffered, it was hard to feel grateful about anything.

Now, it appeared Molly Weasley was going to explain to Angelina why she had asked her to say. She took a deep breath that caught in her throat, the way it does when you've been crying endlessly. "Angelina, dear," she began. Tears welled in her eyes. It was not difficult to understand the difficulty of speaking when one's sadness is so great. "I imagine you've been wondering why I asked you to stay."

Angelina did not reply; she simply waited for Mrs. Weasley to continue. "It's so much to ask," she whispered. "But none of us can get through to him. I think it's too painful for Georgie." His name was cut short a bit as she gasped for breath, desperately trying not to burst into tears. "We all look like him, you know." At this, her face finally crumpled. Shoulders slumped, she shook with sobs, but no tears ran down her face. Angelina had thought that "running out of tears" was simply a figure of speech, not something that could actually happen.

She had never been one for physical affection, but she somehow knew what to do. She rose and gently placed her arms around Mrs. Weasley's shoulder. "Absolutely," she said quietly, and made for the stairs.

Angelina could tell that the house had once been vibrant: full of life and character. Now, it sounded like a more sorrowful version of the Shrieking Shack. She heard crying from every bedroom she passed. Tears welled in her own eyes. She thought briefly of the Yule Ball. Fred had been a rather good dancer. He moved rather like he did on the Quidditch pitch, which had created an altogether jittery and lively style of dancing that she'd quite liked… She blinked them away. Her suffering was nothing compared to the surviving twin's, and if she wanted to have any chance at all at comforting him, she needed to appear strong.

She reached the bedroom. It was still labeled FRED AND GEORGE. A Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes sticker was stuck on the door. With an awful pang Angelina wondered if it would be changed now to Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, apostrophe before the S, but she could not imagine George taking away Fred's credit like that. He'd helped start up the shop, too, after all…

She tried the door first, not expecting it to be suddenly open. She was correct. However, Angelina knew the charm George had used to lock the door. He and Fred had taught it to her, Katie, and Alicia after some Third-Years had tried to steal their broomsticks. The twins had invented the charm, and it was constantly effective. Alas, she whispered the incantation, turned the knob, and gently pushed open the door.

George was in front of his full-length mirror, mumbling at it merrily. The room was filled with a horribly foul odor. It appeared that he had been subsisting solely on Firewhiskey. He was swigging out of the fourteenth bottle, now, if Angelina had counted correctly. He did not seem to notice her come in. Carefully, she took a few steps towards him. His speech, although slurred, was now audible.

"Is that right, Freddie? Personally, I never thought Muggle girls to be quite as enchanting-" he took a generous swig of Firewhiskey, slopping it down the funeral suit he was still wearing. "See what I did there? Of course you did." He took another gulp.

Angelina looked down at him, her chest aching horribly. George's voice was distorted; it appeared he had attempted to use an Echo charm to make his words sound double, but in his drunkenness he had not performed it correctly. Only a word here and there would repeat, and then it would be nearly ten seconds late. George paid as little attention to this phenomenon as he did to Angelina's entrance. "George," she said softly. He ignored her, or else hadn't heard her, and continued chugging whiskey and murmuring to his own reflection.

"George," she said louder, and at last he looked up at her. His eyes were glassy and horribly bloodshot. He gave her a horrible grin that was more a grimace than a smile, and then quickly looked back at the mirror, seeming afraid to look away from it for more than a few seconds.

"Y'see that, Fred? We've got a visitor. It's good ol' Angelina, remember? We played Quidditch, and you guys went on a couple dates." He frowned at his reflection. "Why didn't that work out?

"We left Hogwarts," he reminded himself, sing-songing the words, now speaking as Fred. "And I always sort of thought you had a crush on her, Georgie." He smiled broadly at his own image. "You come first, Freddie," he slurred. "So I'm not taking her away from you."

Angelina's eyes burned agonizingly with the effort of holding back tears. "George," she whispered sorrowfully, "stop it."

He glanced at her, angry and confused. "What's she on about?" he asked the mirror, and then shrugged. He went to take another swig of Firewhiskey. Angelina had seen him quite drunk at Quidditch after-parties, but nothing like this. She wasn't sure how he was surviving this level of inebriation. She snatched the bottle from his hands and send it zooming from the room with a flick of her wand. She then shut the door behind her.

"What'd you do that for?" he demanded angrily, trying to stand feebly. "I paid- I paid. Me and Fred make money at the shop, you can't just steel our whiskey-"

A single tear fell from her left eye. However awful losing Fred had been to her, her mere _empathy_ for George hurt a thousand times more than that. She extended a hand and pulled him up, guiding him the short distance to his bed. He stood before her, eyes closed with exhaustion, as she stripped off his alcohol-soaked suit and shoes, leaving him in just his boxers and white t-shirt. This did not embarrass her as she supposed it could have. With a gentle nudge George fell into bed. His eyes fluttered and closed immediately.

Angelina knelt by the bed. "No, no, no," she scolded him softly. "You can't fall asleep, George."

"Why's that?" he mumbled, eyes still closed.

"You'll die if you go to sleep like that, and a Sobering draught will take too long to brew," Angelina explained. "So I'm just going to talk to you for a while until you feel a little bit better, okay? And I'm not going to let you fall asleep."

George opened his eyes. "Okay," he sighed, and he looked very distinctly like a sad little boy. Angelina brushed his hair from her eyes, feeling a surge of emotion coming up from the pits of her stomach.

And so they were there, George lying down, listening like a child being told a bedtime story, and Angelina sitting cross-legged on his rug, keeping him awake with the most riveting tales she could think of. They spoke of Fred, but not constantly. George had realized that his reflection was not Fred a few minutes into the conversation and had burst into tears. Angelina had held him, stroking his red hair, until he could breathe again. After that, she tried to recount stories to him that _didn't_ include Fred. It was true that his twin had been his other half, his counterpart, his constant companion, but she desperately wanted him to know that he was not nothing without him. George was an individual, and a brilliant one at that. It was hugely important to remember Fred, but George would not be able to go on living unless he could find a way to do so without his departed twin. And so Angelina reminded him of his best individual plays in Quidditch, of the best pranks _he'd_ brewed up, of his own charming dancing with Alicia at the Yule Ball… Occasionally she would tell him _real_ bedtime stories: fairy tales and fables with far-reaching morals, some of which were Muggle ones. George seemed to love them.

And these tales comforted George greatly. Late into the night, when Angelina had judged that he was sober enough to safely sleep, she had settled into the floor, tired enough to sleep on it without pillow or blanket. But alas, George had protested. "You don't want to sleep there," he insisted, still intoxicated. "You can take- you can take- his bed." He pointed at Fred's empty bed, which was still unmade.

"Oh, George, I can't. This is fine, really-" But he had interrupted her, looking at her with wide, pleading eyes.

"Please."

Perhaps she should have argued with him, saying that he would hate her in the morning for it, and that he was still drunk, but she somehow knew he meant it. And so, with some reluctance, she pulled on one of George's t-shirts and a pair of his boxers and climbed in. The sheets smelled pleasantly of butterbeer, pumpkin, and, very faintly, gunpowder- the same way George did.

When she heard George snoring from the bed next to her, she at last closed her eyes, and was nearly instantly asleep.

Xxx

The next morning, George woke rather early, as he always did after a night of drinking. He felt unbelievably awful, but whether that was due to the alcohol or… the other thing he was unsure.

Sunlight flooded the room annoyingly and he rolled over to protect his eyes. With a horribly excited jolt, George saw a human mass in the bed next to him. Had it all been an awful dream? Could it be that Fred wasn't-

And then he saw her black hair fanning out over the pillow, and the previous night came rushing back to him. He remembered fairly clearly telling her to sleep there. Strangely, he did not regret it. There must have been a reason why.

As he watched her sleeping beside him, in the bed where his twin had spent countless nights, he did not wish as fiercely as he would have guessed that it was Fred in her place. He didn't mind having Angelina there, really. In fact, it was rather nice.

Some of the blackness that had engulfed George since the Battle of Hogwarts seemed to recede. He realized with a slow smile that it was quite possible she was the _only_ person he did not mind very much sleeping there. She was the only person he could think of that he might be all right with being beside him, if Fred couldn't.

And so he decided that he'd have to keep her around, somehow. George Weasley settled back into his covers and allowed himself to direct another thought at Fred. _Sorry, Freddie_. _Looks like I might be acting on that little crush on Angelina after all. _


End file.
